I came home with my cheeks still warm.

The apartment was dark except for the living room. Soft light from the floor lamp. Low music. The kind Roman liked when he wanted to look sophisticated.

I stepped through the door and stopped.

Roman sat on the couch. Chloe's legs were draped across his lap. She held a wine glass in one hand, tilted just enough to look careless. Her other hand rested on his shoulder.

She looked at me. Her mouth curved.

I set my keys on the counter. Mocha trotted over and pressed against my leg.

Roman didn't stand. He barely glanced up.

"Where've you been?" he asked. His voice was lazy. Bored.

I dropped my tote on the counter. The silver armor was folded inside. The cape. The figurine Kyree had given me.

I met Chloe's eyes. She was waiting for me to flinch. To cry. To beg.

I smiled.

"Out," I said. "Dressing up for a younger man who actually knows how to make a woman feel wanted."

The silence was instant. Heavy.

Chloe's smirk died on her face.

Roman stared at me. His hand froze on Chloe's ankle.

I walked to the kitchen. I pulled a glass from the cabinet. Filled it with water. Drank it slowly.

Behind me, Roman moved. I heard the shift of fabric. Chloe's legs sliding off his lap.

"What did you just say?" His voice was low. Careful.

I set the glass down and turned around.

"I said I dressed up for a younger man. He liked it. A lot."

Roman stood. His jaw was tight. His hands opened and closed at his sides.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

Chloe looked between us. Her face was pale now. She set her wine glass on the table and stood.

"I should go," she said quietly.

Roman didn't look at her. "Stay."

"Roman—"

"I said stay."

But Chloe was already moving. She grabbed her purse from the chair and walked to the door. She didn't look at me. She left.

The door clicked shut.

Roman took a step toward me. Then another.

"You went out," he said slowly, "with another man."

"I did."

"And you dressed up. For him."

"Yes."

His face went red. The vein in his temple jumped.

"Are you out of your mind?" His voice rose. "Do you have any idea what people will think? What that makes me look like?"

I tilted my head.

"You sent me a video of yourself in bed with Chloe," I said. "On our anniversary. You gifted me her dirty underwear. She was sitting on our couch five minutes ago with her legs on your lap. But I'm the problem?"

His mouth opened. Closed.

He had no answer.

Because there wasn't one.

I picked up my tote and walked past him. He didn't try to stop me.

I went to the bedroom. Closed the door. Locked it.

Mocha curled up on the rug. I sat on the bed and listened.

Roman paced in the living room. Back and forth. Back and forth. His footsteps were heavy. Angry.

He didn't knock. He didn't yell.

He just paced.

All night.

---

The next morning, I woke to silence.

I showered. Dressed. When I came out, Roman was in the living room, digging through my tote.

I stopped in the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't look up. "Looking."

"For?"

"Proof."

He pulled out my wallet. My phone charger. The figurine box.

Then he stopped.

He pulled out a sleek navy tie. Silk. Expensive.

Kyree's.

I had forgotten it was there.

Roman held it up. He studied it. Turned it over in his hands.

I waited for the explosion.

But his face changed.

The anger smoothed out. His mouth curved.

He looked at me. Then back at the tie.

"You bought this," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

"For me." He ran his thumb over the fabric. "You went shopping yesterday. You bought this for me."

My brain stuttered.

Oh.

Oh no.

He thought I bought it. As a gift. For him.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.

"You were trying to make up for the other night," he continued. He was nodding now, pleased with himself. "I knew you'd come around."

He walked to the mirror in the hall. Looped the tie around his neck. Knotted it.

He adjusted the knot. Smoothed the silk. Smiled at his reflection.

"Perfect," he said. "Good taste, Daphne. I'll wear it to the office."

He turned and walked past me. He was whistling.

Whistling.

The door closed behind him.

I stood there. Alone. Staring at the empty hallway.

Then I started laughing.

I couldn't stop.

I doubled over. My shoulders shook. Tears ran down my face.

Mocha looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Maybe I had.

I grabbed my phone and texted Kyree.

*My husband is wearing your tie and thinks I bought it for him.*

Three dots appeared immediately.

Then seventeen laughing emojis.

Then an audio message.

I pressed play.

Kyree was wheezing. Gasping for air. Laughing so hard no sound came out.

I played it again.

And again.

I sat on the couch and laughed until my stomach hurt.

Roman thought he was winning.

He had no idea.

That afternoon, I took a cab to midtown.

Victoria Sterling's office sat on the forty-third floor of a glass tower. No name on the door. Just a number. That was how she worked. Quiet. Sharp. Expensive.

I stepped inside. The receptionist nodded and waved me through.

Victoria stood by the window, her back to me. She wore a charcoal suit. Her hair was pulled tight. When she turned, her eyes were calm. Steady.

"Daphne."

"Victoria."

She gestured to the chair across from her desk. I sat. She didn't waste time.

She opened a folder. Slid it across the polished wood.

"Marcus delivered the latest batch this morning," she said. "Hotel receipts. Chloe Bennett. Two other women. All timestamped. All cross-referenced with his credit card statements."

I flipped through the pages. Each receipt was highlighted. Each date matched a night Roman told me he was working late.

Victoria tapped another document.

"The embezzlement trail is cleaner now. Wire transfers from his company account to a shell in Delaware. Then out to three separate accounts. We traced two of them. Both offshore. Both under aliases he controls."

I studied the numbers. They were large. Larger than I expected.

"He's been stealing for two years," I said.

"At least."

She pulled out another sheet. A witness statement. Typed. Signed. Notarized.

"One of his former assistants," Victoria said. "She left the company six months ago. She's willing to testify that Roman instructed her to falsify expense reports and backdate contracts. She kept copies."

I read the statement twice. Every line was clear. Direct. Damning.

Victoria leaned back in her chair. Her fingers steepled.

"We're close," she said. "We need two more clean financial records. Originals, if possible. Then we file."

I nodded slowly.

Roman was leaving for Boston next week. A three-day conference. He always left his home office unlocked when he traveled. He thought I never went in there.

He was wrong.

"I can get them," I said.

Victoria's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Just acknowledgment.

"Good. Once we have those, we move fast. Divorce petition. Asset freeze. Criminal referral. All at once. He won't have time to react."

She closed the folder and slid it back to her side of the desk.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

I met her eyes.

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

She studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"Call me when you have the documents."

I stood. Shook her hand. Left.

In the elevator, I watched the numbers descend. Forty-three. Thirty-seven. Twenty-one.

My reflection stared back at me in the polished steel doors.

I looked calm. Steady.

I felt like a countdown clock.

---

That night, Marcus Thorne's email arrived at 11:47 p.m.

The subject line was blank. The body of the email had one sentence.

*Final report. Encrypted. Password: Mocha2024.*

I sat at the kitchen table. Mocha was curled at my feet, her warm weight pressed against my ankle.

I typed the password. The file opened.

Three hundred pages.

I scrolled slowly.

Chat logs. Screenshots. Timestamps. Financial payments sent to accounts under fake names. Receipts for hotel rooms. Plane tickets. Gifts.

And then I saw the witness statements.

Three of them.

Young women. Teenagers when it started. Adults now. Each one had come forward independently. Each one told the same story.

Roman had paid them. Manipulated them. Threatened them.

My hand stilled on the trackpad.

For a moment, I couldn't move.

Mocha shifted. She lifted her head and looked at me.

I breathed in. Held it. Let it out.

Then I kept reading.

Every page was documented. Every claim was backed by evidence. Phone records. Bank transfers. Text messages recovered from cloud backups.

Marcus had been thorough. Relentless.

When I reached the last page, I sat back.

The apartment was silent. Down the hall, Roman was asleep. He had no idea.

I opened my phone. Took a photo of each document. Uploaded every single one to the encrypted folder I had built over the last six months.

Then I opened a new email to Victoria Sterling.

I attached the full package.

I typed one line.

*That's everything. We're ready.*

I hit send.

The email disappeared.

I closed my laptop. Set my phone on the table.

Mocha stretched and yawned. I reached down and scratched behind her ears.

"Almost done," I whispered.

She wagged her tail once. Twice.

I sat there in the dark.

I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad.

I felt steady.

Like a woman standing on solid ground, watching a storm she built herself finally roll in.

Roman had no idea what was coming.

But I did.

And I was ready.

My phone rang while I was making coffee.

Nathan.

I answered on the second ring. "Hey."

"Hey, you." His voice was warm and easy. It wrapped around me like a blanket. "I've got a free Saturday. There's a trail above the Hudson Valley. Long climb. Great view. Nobody around."

"Sounds like our kind of place."

"That's the idea." I could hear him smiling. "Check your phone."

My screen lit up with a new message.

A photo. Nathan, in a dim home gym, shirtless. Sweat on his chest. Abs like carved stone. His hair was wet, and he was grinning into the mirror like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Under it: *Getting in shape for our next adventure. You in?*

I laughed out loud. My cheeks went hot.

"Well?" he said. "Say something."

"I'm saying you're a menace."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes."

I saved the photo. Of course I did.

Mocha was already at the door, tail wagging, leash in her mouth. I hung up, grabbed my keys, and left my phone face-up on the counter.

I didn't think about it.

That was my first mistake.

---

The park was quiet and cold. Mocha sniffed every tree like it owed her money. I walked slowly and let my head clear.

Forty minutes later, I opened the apartment door.

The first thing I heard was nothing.

Then I saw the bedroom.

My closet was gutted. Dresses on the floor. Shoes thrown against the wall. A vase lay shattered across the rug, water soaking into the carpet. Our wedding photo had been ripped off its nail. The frame was cracked. The glass was a spiderweb.

Roman stood in the middle of it all. His shirt was untucked. His chest rose and fell like he had run a mile.

He held up my phone.

"Who the *fuck* is this?"

Nathan's abs glowed on the screen.

Mocha pressed against my leg. I rested my hand on her head.

"You think you can whore around behind my back?" Roman shouted. Spit flew from his mouth. "In my house? On my money?"

I looked at the broken vase. The torn dresses. The wedding photo, face-down in the glass.

I didn't feel fear.

I felt tired.

"You sent me a sex tape on our anniversary, Roman," I said evenly.

"That's not—"

"You gave me your mistress's dirty lingerie. You put her on our couch, with her feet in your lap." I stepped over a heel. "And you're screaming at me over a shirtless photo from a friend?"

"A *friend*?" He laughed, high and ugly. "Don't insult me."

"Then don't act like I owe you anything."

He crossed the room in three strides. His fingers clamped around my wrist.

Hard.

Mocha growled.

I didn't scream. I didn't pull right away. I looked at his hand, then up at his face.

"Let go," I said quietly.

"Or what?"

I held his eyes. I didn't blink. I let the silence stretch until it was thick enough to choke on.

Something flickered across his face. Doubt, maybe.

His grip loosened.

I twisted my wrist free. A red mark was already blooming. I'd photograph it later. Date, time, angle.

Roman looked away first.

I stepped over the broken glass, walked out of the bedroom, and didn't say another word.

Behind me, he stood in the wreckage of his own tantrum.

---

The next afternoon, he called me into his study.

He sat behind the big mahogany desk, hands folded, like a judge. The room smelled like leather and cologne. A single sheet of paper waited in the middle of the desk.

"Sit."

I stayed standing.

He shrugged, like he'd expected that. "Fine. Here's how this goes."

He slid the paper toward me with two fingers.

"A voluntary departure agreement. You leave this apartment by Friday. No settlement. No access to the joint accounts. No negotiation."

He leaned back. His chair creaked. He looked so pleased with himself.

"You have no career," he said. "No savings. No leverage. Walk out quietly, or I'll make sure everyone in this city knows you're an ungrateful, cheating wife who doesn't deserve a cent."

I picked up the paper.

I read it. Slowly. Every clause. Every line.

Roman watched me, a faint smile on his lips. He thought I was reading my own funeral.

I turned the last page. Set it down. Picked it up again.

Then I tore it in half.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. Clean and final.

I tore it again. Dropped the pieces on his desk.

Roman's eyes widened. His smile slid off.

"You really shouldn't have done that," he said.

I almost felt sorry for him.

"No, Roman." My voice was soft. Gentle, even.

"*You* shouldn't have."